


Death Wish

by FieryPen37



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Duty, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Grief/Mourning, Mentions of Anakin, Sweet/Hot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-24
Updated: 2016-10-24
Packaged: 2018-08-24 12:19:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8372083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FieryPen37/pseuds/FieryPen37
Summary: During his exile on Tatooine, Obi-Wan bumps into an old friend.





	

Death Wish

 

It was an unusually hot and boring day on Tatooine. And that was saying something, as _everyday_ was hot and boring on Tatooine. This bloody planet held few good memories for Obi-Wan, fewer still since the Republic’s fall. Here was where it had all began. Anakin, Force help him, was lost. Padmé too, innocent idealistic Padmé. Anakin was dead, and Darth Vader stood in his place. The Republic the Jedi fought for was burned to ashes. There was dull ache beneath his breastbone, a grittiness to his eyes that hadn’t been there before Mustafar. Volcanic ash lodged in the back of his throat perhaps, or maybe the horrid vision of Anakin ablaze, Force-darkened eyes full of agony and sadness. He closed his eyes, tucking the memories into a locked chest within his mind.

“None of that, now,” he said to himself.  He paced the cramped confines of his canyon-side home, riffling through the few books he had brought with him into exile. Meditation held no appeal, nor saber practice.   

Moving to the small window, Obi-Wan scratched his bearded chin and squinted at the sky. Tatooine’s twin suns were near their peak, and if he was to return before dusk, he should leave. Distraction at the cesspool of a cantina would have to do. Obi-Wan shrugged his hood over his face, and began the lonely trek to Mos Eisley. By the time he reached the crest of the dune above the spaceport, sweat streamed down his back and matted his hair to his head. Here on the Outer Rim, the ripples of coups were felt slowly. Some Republic governors and senators had fled, leaving their constituents at the mercy of the Hut clans or other enterprising ruffians. Villains and scum, the lot of them. A cluster of clone troopers lounged at the port’s border, interrogating each passerby. Obi-Wan scowled beneath his hood as he waited his turn, hot and irritable.

“What’s your business in Mos Eisley?” the clone’s voice echoed strangely from the helmet.

Not long ago, Obi-Wan would have reached for the Force and altered the trooper’s perception with a mind trick. But Emperor Palpatine, a darksider himself, had employed Force-sensitives to root out any Jedi who had escaped Order 66. While it was a slim possibility, it behooved Obi-Wan to be cautious. He relaxed his rigid posture, stumbling slightly into one trooper.    

“Can’t a fella get a kriffing drink without being questioned by a jack-booted mudlicker?” he said, slurring his words for effect. Burdened by armor, it was impossible to discern the troopers’ body language or expression, but he saw no tightening of formation or raising of blasters. Still, he was thankful for his lightsaber hidden in his boot. 

“Another bloody drunk, move along,” the lieutenant said with a terse gesture.

The other trooper emphasized the words with a hard shove between Obi-Wan’s shoulder blades. He landed face-first in the sand. Trying in vain to swipe the grit from his mouth and dust the sand from his robes, he staggered to his feet and sought the cantina. The door slid open and a blast of piping music and smoke assaulted him. The stench of spilled alcohol and unwashed bodies hung in a near-visible fug. The climate-control unit sputtered and coughed, unable to compete with unrelenting Tatooinian sun and dense body heat.

Obi-Wan wove his way through the throngs, ignoring smatterings of curses and braggadocio.

“What do you want, Kenobi?” the barkeep sneered as three scaled tentacles quickly cleaned mugs.

“A drink, that’s all, Arrk,” he rasped.

“Thirty credits,” the barkeep said. Obi-Wan’s hands balled into fists.

“ _Thirty_ credits? Is that your top-shelf Correllian whiskey?” he said through clenched teeth. If thin reptilian lips could smirk, Arrk did so.

Part of him wanted to lose himself in a mindless fistfight, like a brazen youth. What use was a Jedi’s serenity when there was no Republic to protect, no padawans to train? Nothing left but a few scattered exiles hunted like animals! Before he could take a breath in to reply, their tense standoff was interrupted. 

“Just give him his kriffing drink, Arrk,” a female voice said. A tanned hand slapped on the bar, sixty credits. Obi-Wan flinched, startled by her presence. It had been a long time.

“Sianou Hort’uk,” the barkeep said, snatching the money, “I thought I told you never to come back to this cantina.” She smirked in reply, bowing mockingly. The beings surrounding them watched with avid interest, and Obi-Wan saw more than a few credits change hands speculating the outcome.

“In the flesh. Haven’t you heard? The Republic has fallen. I can go where I please now.” Her hand fell to her left hip, where a small blaster rested in its holster, to say nothing of the quarterstaff strapped across her back.

“Get us a drink and we’ll be on our way,” she said. _If not, I’ll blast a hole in your forehead_ was the glaring subtext. A tense minute passed, then another as they glared at each other.

“Fine. But any trouble and I get Haarlan to poke a new hole in you,” Arrk said, gesturing to the cantina’s bouncer, a massive bipedal being with four burly arms, bulging with muscles.

“Deal,” Sianou said, then met Obi-Wan’s gaze, green eyes warm. His belly flipped at the sight, familiar and now entirely unwelcome.

“Kenobi? Would you care to join me?”

 

Obi-Wan exchanged one last glare with Arrk before following Sianou to an alcove. Through the odors of the cantina, he caught a faint whiff of her scent, agar oil and spice. His already irritable mood soured further. It was humiliating being rescued by the slight human woman ten years his junior, not mention he was still besotted with her. A sobering thought. Sianou settled onto the bench and plopped her booted feet on the edge of the table, resting her staff within easy reach.

“Spit it out, Kenobi, before it eats you alive,” she said with a hint of laughter in her voice.

With great dignity, Obi-Wan gathered his robes around himself and settled on the bench across from her. As rumpled and flushed as he felt, by contrast Sian’s tanned face looked luminous with a faint sheen of sweat. Wisps of dark brown hair had fallen loose from her braid and clung to her neck. Her full lips wore their habitual smirk, as if the galaxy and every being in it were a great joke. And stars, she looked _edible_.

“What are you doing on Tatooine, Sian?” he asked.

 “My, that is a popular question today. And, as I already told that bouncer and the three empty-headed Stormtroopers before him, I am here to deliver a shipment of power converters to a group of moisture farmers. They ordered a contract. I can show you the documents, if you like.”

Obi-Wan grunted in response. On Naboo, he had once seen a vulpine species pretend to be injured only to attack any predator who came nibbling. If he had ever seen a vixen in human form, it was Sianou. She wasn’t exactly pretty, he was always quick to remind himself, her features were too angular, too stubborn.

He reached for his drink to occupy his hands. It had been three years since he’d met anyone from his old life as a Jedi, and he seemed to have forgotten the finer points. Other deeper hungers were quick to point out just how long it had been . . . As he did so, Sian gestured with two fingers, and the cup obligingly slid toward her. He felt her smirk and her gaze, as potent as touch, wander over him in frank and appreciative appraisal.

“So what needlebug flew up Arrk nose to make him hate you so much?” she asked. Obi-Wan gave a tight little shrug. 

“I think his pod-mate was killed during the Clone War. He doesn’t like Jedi. But what are you really doing here, Sian?” he said with a raised brow.

Unfazed, Sian said, “Quid pro quo, Kenobi. What brings the famed general to a backwater dump like this? Other than the complete genocide of the Jedi, of course.” Obi-Wan heaved a sigh, smothering a pang of resentment.

 “It’s the same as the rest, I suppose. Just surviving.”  

Sian made a noise low in her throat, but said nothing. For several minutes, they drank in silence, a quiet thick with tension and history.

In Obi-Wan’s estimation, Sian was everything wrong with Jedi pacifism. She was, in fact, a very strong Force-sensitive. Her parents had refused to give her up to the Jedi Master who had come to take her to the Temple. Though untrained, she had gleaned what she could of the Force as she aged. She had even conned a rogue Jedi to teach her the finer points of meditation and lightsaber forms.

They met when he and Anakin had a mission on Narq in the Colonial Region following reports of a being who was stealing from local spice traders. The thief in question was thirteen-year-old Sianou, who battered her way into their minds to get what she wanted. Anakin—once a Force-sensitive without a tutor himself—had been quick to point out she was starving. Her parents died years before, leaving her with nothing. Obi-Wan and Anakin had apprehended her, but she ultimately escaped custody at the spaceport.

“I hate it when you do that!” Obi-Wan said, snatching the cup from Sianou’s Force-grip. She scowled.

“What is it the Jedi say? The Force surrounds us and penetrates us; it binds the galaxy together. If I hear a voice, just as you do, can I not follow it?”

Movements brisk with irritation, Sian threw back the last of her whiskey and adjusted so her knees touched his underneath the table, arms folded on the table between them. Her scowl softened.

“I heard what happened at the Temple. I’m sorry. I don’t mean to probe at old wounds,” she said, and laid a hand over his.

Through the Force, she glowed like a small sun, and he took comfort in her gentle rays. She felt his grief and sought to ease it. Against his will, a knot rose in his throat. Sympathy and comfort were foreign now, something from a bygone era. It was a high mark of trust for one Force-user to open to themselves to another. Even the closest of companions rarely attempted it.

“Thank you. I am glad to see you again,” he said, lowering his inner shields as well. There were no lies, no self-deception in the Force. He could see to the deepest parts of her being, and she him. Sian let out a shaky breath and leaned her forehead to touch his.

“I’ve missed you, Obi-Wan,” she whispered, her breath a soft caress on face.

He remembered vividly when he saw her again after their first meeting, at the beginning of the Clone War when she came to Coruscant. She had built her own modest empire amongst the spice traders—and as a sometimes enforcer for the Republic in several systems. Then twenty-six, she had sought him out after receiving her commendation of service from the Chancellor. Charmed by both her bashful apologies and brash self-confidence, they had talked and shared drinks. One thing led to another and they found themselves in bed together—a trend that would continue whenever they met.

Some things had changed in the four years since their last tryst on Coruscant. There was a scar through her right eyebrow that hadn’t been there before, faint lines fanning around her eyes, her figure thinner, rangier.

“You’ve changed too, and no wonder. Do you want to get out of here? I have a room at the inn down near the hangars. My ship’s being repaired, or I’d suggest there.”

“My home is several hours’ walk from here,” Obi-Wan said, almost shyly. Sian’s habitual smirk returned.

“You did say you were lying low. Your place it is,” she said.

 

The walk back to his canyon was oddly pleasant; Sian had a wealth of stories to share. Not all the news about the galaxy was bleak; Kashyyk had mustered a rebellion and repulsed the Empire’s forces. Master Yoda was funneling refugees and potential political enemies to safe houses from Dagobah. Tatooine’s suns were beginning their descent, turning the sky a burnt orange. Even the constant wind had slackened to a mild breeze.

“How are you so well connected with the goings on?” Obi-Wan said, with a hint of suspicion.

Sian made a show of adjusting her quarterstaff across her back. Their conversation was interrupted by a sudden gust of wind, screaming through the narrow gully. They picked their way around jagged stones and thorny underbrush. At its base, Obi-Wan shoved back the hood and waited. Sian firmed under his perusal, shoulders square.

“I would prefer to speak of this in private. Jawas are notorious gossips,” she said.

“Very well then,” Obi-Wan said. _She’s with the Alliance, that much is clear. But what would she want here? Mothma and the others don’t know about Luke._ It was his charge to protect the boy. To maintain balance in the Force, one Skywalker must be of the Light. He was so lost in thought, he almost walked right passed the entrance to his home.

“Ah, this is it,” he said, ushering her in the door.

The end of the Republic had also ended his status as General. Though Jedi were ascetic by nature, _every_ room in the Capital was opulent. And, he was ashamed to admit, he’d grown accustomed to being treated with deference. He shrugged off his robe and hung it on its hook. The climate-control unit rattled, cleansing and humidifying the air and giving off a faint chemical smell. A jittery energy settled in him, wariness of what Sian really had to say, and a faint sting of hurt. He liked it better when she had bumped into him by chance, and sought his company because she wished to. Obi-Wan set a tray of flatbread on table, along with a carafe of Bantha milk.

From the corner of his eye, he saw Sian take in the room in one curt glance. With a raised brow, she gestured toward the table with her staff. Nodding his assent, she shrugged off the harness and set the blaster beside it. Another mark of trust for one such as her, he thought, to set aside their weapons.

In reciprocation, Obi-Wan bent and pulled his lightsaber from his boot and set it on the counter.

“I like it, Kenobi. It suits you.”

“It’s fine,” he said, dismissing the pleasantries with a wave. He fixed his gaze on hers in his best Jedi Master glare, willing away the ache beneath his breastbone. The brilliant light pouring in from the window caught the sheen of her dark hair, the sharp nose, the soft dusting of her body hair on her muscled arms.

“ _Now_ will you tell me what you’re really doing on Tatooine?” he asked with some sharpness. Sian plucked a wafer from the plate and chewed thoughtfully. 

“I am with the Alliance, Obi-Wan. We have to fight. You know that.” With relief, he realized she was here to persuade him to join. Luke was safe.

“Fight with what? The Republic is dead, the Senate a farce. What systems have pledged themselves against the Empire? None! What could a bunch of idealists do that the entire Jedi Order could not?” Old anger welled up and he took calming breath. Grief and anger were paths to the Dark Side. Sian bowed her head.

“You’re right. The Emperor fooled us all. He pinned a medal on my chest and I swore I’d die for the Republic, for _him_.” She met his gaze and he saw the sheen of unshed tears.

“And then he corrupted a man I thought was the very best of the Jedi, a man you named your brother. Then that good man s—slaughtered babies and . . . and then nothing in the galaxy made sense!” Obi-Wan flinched as if struck. The deep sadness of their loss yawned between them.

Sian closed the distance separating them, grasping his arms.

“But we have to fight! Isn’t that better than hiding, better than watching all we love be destroyed?” she said, green eyes wild. Sian’s voice through the Force was softer, lower. _You, Kenobi. I couldn’t bear it if I lost you._

And, stars help him, he couldn’t help but kiss her then. She made a small sound against his lips and threaded her arms around his neck. Stars, she tasted so _good_ , of sharp whiskey and the faint salty tang of flatbread. It had been so _long_. Her fingernails scraped the nape of his neck and hot pleasure coursed through him.

Sian slanted her mouth over his, tongue teasing his lower lip. Obi-Wan’s moan was caught in his throat and he seized control of the kiss, shoving her body beneath his on the low couch. He broke off to kiss her chin, her neck. Her callused hands fisted in his hair, sweet broken sounds falling from her lips. They tangled and twisted together, shedding the layers of Obi-Wan’s belt and tunic, Sian’s trousers and boots.        

“Sian. Sian,” he said. He could not return her beautiful words; it was a sin among the Jedi. After all, hadn’t attachment led to Anakin’s fall? Obi-Wan understood now. The passion and fear that corrupted his tranquility, the desperate need to have her _close_ , to have her safe. She must have seen the conflict in his eyes, for she cupped his cheek, something of her old smirk teasing her kiss-bruised lips.

“It’s all right,” she whispered, peppering his face with kisses, “We’re together now. That’s all that matters.”

Obi-Wan pressed his forehead to hers, quivering with something too fierce for love, too sweet for grief. The hot, intimate contact of his bare chest against her was heady. His hands shook as he eagerly peeled off Sian’s tunic. He stilled, aghast. Against her olive-toned skin, a scar of soft whitish tissue bloomed just beneath her right shoulder, stretching in a jagged line beneath her breasts to her left hip. Obi-Wan knew what the mark was from: Force lightning, a weapon of darksider practitioners, and the trademark of one in particular.  

“Sian! What happened?”

“It’s nothing,” she said briskly, drawing her legs up to her chest.

“I was stupid enough to confront the Emperor after the horror of the Senate meeting. Only with words, mind you. I guess I knew he’d kill me if I tried to fight. He _smiled_ at me. He didn’t even say anything, just smiled and blasted me out the window with his lightning, like I was an insect.”

Obi-Wan reached for her, and she sagged into his embrace, curling into him.

“You could have died, Sian. That’s how he killed Master Windu, I saw the vid feed,” he said.

“I know.” Her voice was small, and in it, he heard the sudden, consuming pain of lightning and the terror of a long fall.

Sian pressed a soft kiss to his chest and the heat that had evaporated upon seeing her injury kindled again. Obi-Wan’s heart squeezed in a spasm of deep tenderness. Their encounters before usually were light, flirtatious, flavored by Corellian wine. Now, the same honest passion was there, but made deeper and sweeter by all they shared. Obi-Wan’s fingers plucked at the tie to her braid and carefully unraveled her wavy brown hair. Open and vulnerable, she looked to him. He tilted her chin up with one callused finger and kissed her. Slowly, like a flower blooming, Sian unfurled beneath his touch. Feather-light caresses on her breasts and belly, tender, sipping kisses on her mouth, gentle, coaxing.

“Sian,” he whispered, breathing deep of her scent. Her name was a question, an echo of longing. _Let me,_ he pleaded silently, _let me give you pleasure._ Sian divested him of the last of his clothing and they were naked together. Golden sunset light poured in, painting them in a Nubian tiger’s stripes. Sian was far from still; she remembered keenly what he liked. The soft scrape of nail down his back made him shudder, her hot sweet mouth on his nipples made him moan.

“Yes, Obi-Wan. My Jedi Knight,” she said half-teasing, her hand wrapping around his hard length. He groaned against her breast, the pleasure unspeakable.

“Yours,” he said, hoarse and desperate, thrusting into her grip. She was not bound as he was, she was free to love as she wished. All his life, he’d felt unwanted. If she said she wanted him, he would gladly be hers.

“Come here,” she whispered in his ear. She guided him to her entrance, fingers slick with her juices. Obi-Wan eased inside, enveloped by exquisite heat and pleasure. With savage pleasure, he knew it had been just as long for her as for him. _Mine,_ whispered a traitorous voice, _Sian is mine._ A tendril of thought brushed his consciousness, one that was warm and familiar. Obi-Wan frowned in confusion, poised above her. They had never connected through the Force during sex. It seemed unspeakably intimate, not to mention forbidden. Hesitant, he asked, “Are you sure?” Her smile was dazzling, like the sun rising.

“Yes,” Sian said.

Touched by her trust, Obi-Wan’s eyes stung. He dropped his mental shielding. She _was_ like the sun, he thought, enveloped within her light and warmth. He saw and felt all she was and she in him, the Force ebbing from him to her and back again. Her desire for him glowed white hot, like the heart of a star, and Obi-Wan lost all control. He set a pounding rhythm, their bodies in perfect sync. Hot, languid kisses, the delicious rub of sweat-damp flesh, the wet heat of her clenching his length. The hoarse rasping of breath, the slap of flesh meeting, the musky scent of her. Pleasure rose and crested within her in a series of shuddering spasms, and Obi-Wan was lost, spilling himself within her.

He collapsed atop her, face buried in her hair. In his own mind again, Obi-Wan felt oddly lonely. Overwhelmed by the depth of feeling, he held her close. They did not speak, whatever _that_ was felt too sacred to cheapen with words. He noticed it was full dark now, and eased himself off her body. The sight of Sian sprawled naked and debauched with his seed seeping from her was one he would treasure when she left.

“Uh, would you like to move to the sleeping quarters? It might be more comfortable,” he said. Sleepy green eyes blinked up at him, an equally lazy smile on her lips. She stretched and yawned, looking every inch the vixen.

“Sounds lovely, but I’m starved. Do you have anything more substantial than flatbread?” Sian said, rising and padding to the kitchen. Obi-Wan felt a smile stretching long-unused muscles in his face. He felt relaxed, almost buoyant.

“Not much, really. I usually make do with protein capsules and flatbread,” Obi-Wan said, pouring a cup of Bantha milk for himself. Sian made a derisive sound in her throat.

“Jedi. If it tastes good, it must be of the Dark Side,” she deadpanned, wrinkling her nose at the contents of his cupboard.

“Don’t be ridiculous. Self-denial improves your connection with the Force,” he said, leaning one shoulder against the wall. He found he greatly enjoyed watching her pace naked about his hut. Sianou gave him a dubious look.

“In my experience, you can still use the Force with a good meal in your belly. What I wouldn’t give for one of Dex’s Coruscant sliders right now,” Sian said, pulling an exaggeratedly aggrieved expression. Obi-Wan laughed.

“Can’t fault you there. Dex made the best sliders,” he said. Sian grinned.

 She plucked three protein capsules from the container and offered them to him. He took one. She snatched his cup from his hand and washed down the other two. Swiping milk from her lips with the back of her hand, her smile turned predatory.

“Now, what were you saying about sleeping quarters?”

Obi-Wan showed her the dim, spare room, but they did not sleep. It had been too long since he’d slaked his craving for her, and he intended to take his time. Sianou made no move to object and the night passed in a blur of hedonistic delight. It didn’t matter what position, or how long each encounter lasted, it was nothing but heat, pleasure and a deep unity—a feeling of _wholeness_ —that he began to crave. Every time Obi-Wan sought her through the Force, they basked in each other, and when it was over he felt even more keenly alone.  

Morning found them drowsing in an embrace, watching Tatooine’s suns peek over the horizon. Sian rose and sought the ‘fresher. As she made her way back to bed, he heard the faint whine of a speeder approaching. Obi-Wan willed them to pass. There was only one moisture farmer that lived close enough to pass his hut on the way to Mos Eisley. The speeder slowed and faintly, Obi-Wan heard Beru’s voice. Sian, unconcerned with her nakedness, peered through the slit in the shades to the canyon below.

“Who’re they?” she asked.

“Owen and Beru Lars. They own a moisture farm not too far from here. That’s the third time this month their speeder’s broken down. Owen will get it to work,” Obi-Wan said, folding his arms behind his head in practiced nonchalance. The sliver of light washed Sian’s body in gold, he could see the sweat trickling down the outer curve of her breast. An almost wistful smile touched her lips, gaze intent on the family outside.

“Is that their son? He’s a handsome lad,” Sian said. Practiced lies lay ready on his tongue. She never needed to know.

“That’s Luke. Luke Skywalker,” he said. The name shivered through her and she slowly turned toward him, her arm falling nerveless to her side. Horror and fear surged through the Force in a potent psychic blow.

“Sky . . . Skywalker? How is that possible?” she said, her voice rising in pitch. A peal of a child’s laughter reached them and Sian glanced at the window with a new wariness.

Obi-Wan rose to his feet and faced her square, almost a battle stance.  

“He’s an innocent child, Sian. His parentage is no fault of his.”

Sian raked a hand through her hair, fear and anger warring for supremacy on her face.

“I don’t know what to say. You’d think I’d use that baby to . . . to what? To use as a pawn for the Alliance? To ransom to his bloody _father_? Is that why you didn’t tell me?” she said, her expression thunderous. Sian’s fists balled, her hair snarled from their lovemaking, naked and furious, Obi-Wan fought a pang of arousal at the sight. He frowned.

“I didn’t tell you because Master Yoda forbade me to speak of him. And there is no telling what the Alliance would do with him. I intend to keep him safe,” he said, folding his arms over his chest. Sian’s scowl twisted into one of disgust.

“You have a death wish, Kenobi. _How_ will you keep him safe? When he’s on _his_ home planet, with his own name? And you, _Ben_ Kenobi, dressed as a bloody Jedi a few kilometers away? Do you _want_ Vader to kill you?” she snarled.

“You don’t know how deeply he loathed this place. Anakin--” his voice threatened to break on the name, “—was born a slave here. His mother died here. He told me a million times that he found never set foot on Tatooine again.”

“And you would bet the fate of the galaxy on a hunch? You’re a _fool_ ,” she said. Silence stretched between them, taut as wire.

“I can’t leave him. He must be protected,” Obi-Wan said. _At least one. Force help me, let me save at least one. For his father’s sake._

“Then come with me,” she said, grasping his shoulders, “Yes, Luke should be kept safe. But anonymity should be his protection. Your presence may draw them here.”

He was tempted. With Sian’s face soft in desperate appeal, begging him to forget his duty, to leave the arid sand and loneliness of Tatooine behind . . . Obi-Wan was tempted. And her words touched a secret fear that he’d held every day since he'd given Luke to his aunt and uncle. _What if they come for him?_

“I can’t,” he said softly, pressing his forehead to hers. Meaning much more than leaving Tatooine.

“I understand,” she said, voice equally soft.  

Sianou moved away, dragging on her discarded trousers and tunic.

“You may not be able to leave, but please know you can trust me. When I make my report to the Alliance, I will tell them you simply refused.”

“I know, Sian. I trust you.”

An unutterable sadness crossed her face. She cupped his cheek, stroking his beard with her thumb. His throat closed, his eyes stung.

“I do hope this will not be the end of you, Kenobi.” He tried smile.

“Goodbye, Sian.”

“Goodbye, Obi-Wan.”                

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little Obi-Wan drabble. Maybe more to come.


End file.
